


the demon comes, but am i to blame?

by bakeoff, maely1234



Series: fallen souls [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, Chara Dreemurr Says Fuck, Child Abuse, Gen, Knitted Sweaters, Misanthropy, Misgendering, Suicide, in which i adore asriel with my entire heart, references to found family because i'm weak and also chara deserves a caring family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakeoff/pseuds/bakeoff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maely1234/pseuds/maely1234
Summary: "You are perfect, and as long as you are perfect, you are unharmed."(The first human soul falls, and they find a reason to do it again.)





	the demon comes, but am i to blame?

Father is a liar.

He is a respected, upright political figure with rows of bright teeth that rarely show themselves, but look charming in a dignified grin. He sometimes chuckles over flutes of expensive drink at parties with the other men, all of whom dress in suits and ties and shoes, shining beneath the crystal bearing chandeliers that scatter light from the high ceilings. He says clever things to them, dips his words into courtesy and wit. Sometimes he makes promises regarding projects too convoluted for you to properly remember, sometimes he looks solemn and thoughtful as he listens to his peers. 

When he takes you with him to galas and events full of people who dress and talk like he does, he puts you in dresses embroidered with silk. Sashes from every colour you could imagine and  _ beyond,  _ gold and silver shoes made with something lustrous and solid. In your hair, velvet ribbons are tied in neat bows. You are like a little princess, they all tell you. An heiress to be.  _ You’ll age well, dear,  _ they say, like you’re a fine bottle of wine resting high on a shelf, left in peace and held in high regard only to be consumed by a hungry world that wants you among its ranks.

You smile. You stick by Father’s side like a good girl and listen to the adults talk. You stay away from the people he tells you to avoid- you respond in short when spoken to, and make nice with the other children in clothing sown of fortune. You are all the product of these men, you realise early on- navigating a maze of light and gold and clinking glasses, whispered conversations and talks of  _ business, investment, budget.  _ You will inherit this world- you must. And for now, you observe.

.

 

From every event you’ve been to where the rich mingle (which is nearly all of them), only one thing sticks out to you particularly. There is always a someone by the piano, playing a tune.

It is always something tasteful and classical. The pianist is always silent, delivering without word, as though their servitude does not include indulging those around them. They play, and play, and play, and the world keeps spinning.

 

.

  
  


Mother is a liar.

She holds you close to her chest sometimes when you’re back from wherever father has taken you. She undoes your ribbons and brushes your hair, says things like,  _ you’re such a good girl, Chara. But in the end you’re mama’s little girl, aren’t you?  _ She spends hours with you, telling you stories from her childhood, from before father came and  _ ruined  _ her, as she puts it.

You sit and listen, head tilting into her touch. Your smile only broadens when her words grow frantic with each memory she recounts. You are good at pretending the drag of her sharp nails along your skull does not hurt.

She undresses you from your rich threads, and you feel like you can breathe when they’re gone. Instead she puts you in warm pyjamas and says, quietly, what she has told you many times after you return from an outing with father.

_ Chara,  _ she says, her voice trembling, her nails embedding crescents into your arm.  _ Never fall in love with a man like your father! Never let that charming surface fool you! _

You think to yourself that maybe you are too small to even worry about love or care for its implications. You think that you are definitely too estranged from the concept to care. You say you won’t anyway, because it means you are released from her grip. Then, as always, your tiny bare feet climb their way to the top of the stairs where you find your room. You count stars that don’t exist on your dark ceiling, almost tempted to giggle at the futility. 

You fall asleep to the sound of your parents screaming at each other downstairs, and you dream of the golden flowers that grow around the village a little ways off your property.

 

.

Soon, you are old enough to realise you are expected to pick a side.

Your Father has need and affection for you only when you’re a convenient trophy to show off to the men at the galas and ceremonies he constantly attends. He buys you clothes and ribbons and shoes and soon, necklaces of diamond and silver and things that make you look even more expensive. He says in a smooth voice coated with certainty,  _ you won’t disappoint me,  _ and parades you around with a rough gloved hand on your shoulder. 

You are Mother’s weapon against Father. She fills you up with whispers full of loathing as she pretends to care for you when you’re home alone. She rips ribbons off your hair and tears away your dresses, pulls the shoes off your feet so harshly the laces on them snap, and says,  _ Good for nothing father, scumbag hidden beneath layers of gold and lies. _ You have given up on telling her that she acts too rough and hurts you too often when she gets this way, which is almost always. You say,  _ I’m sorry mother,  _ and  _ how can I help you, mother?  _ and she is appeased enough to stop hurting you.

Your house is large and hollow and full of things that cost fortunes and don’t interest you at all. You are not even sure who you are anymore, really, and you’re not sure it even matters at all. You know who you  _ can  _ be,  _ how  _ you should be- the why is a pointless inquiry.

  
  


.  
  
  


You stand in front of a your vanity in a deep maroon dress. You try to count the smooth seams and threads that flow into one and make this piece of rich fabric what it is. You fail. You try to twirl in front of the vanity, indulging a quiet, embarrassing part of yourself that gnaws at your curious mind; ruffles and skirts are caught on the wind, and they  _ spin, spin, spin!  _ Your head is dizzy when your spinning comes to an end. You laugh like you’ll die if you were to stop, collapsing onto your sheets. You laugh until your throat hurts and you laugh until the unfamiliar sound becomes an ugly melody embedded in your head like the repetitive music of a thousand faceless pianists at a thousand horrid ceremonies.

You hate it.

 

-  
  
  


You are old enough to learn something important.

Those who want to make their way to the top unscatched will resort to falsehoods; softer, perhaps, rolling off the tongue with a gentle, charismatic sort of ease. Lies don’t have to be cruel and harsh. They don’t have to be world destructive verbal thievery for them to be effective.

It’s all about who you’re dealing with. People like to be pleased, you learn- they like to be told what they want to hear. They like being indulged by other parties, being made to feel like the protagonists of a scenario. To navigate these encounters is to mold yourself into the role of the Secondary on their behalf- to embody that which they desire. They walk away satisfied, and you walk away with your objective complete.

_ You  _ are also a liar.

You learn to shed your roles are quickly as you do your clothes. You are a miracle of chocolate hair and rosy, full cheeks come to life, a study in the art of the perfect heiress; you are a sympathetic child consoling a woman full of hatred for the world she’s trapped herself in. You are a pleasant conversation for easily impressed adults. You are a quiet ballad; you are an audience to your peers.

You are perfect. And as long as you are perfect, you are unharmed. 

You paint invisible stars on your ceiling and memorise where they are. In your head, you make them into constellations and far away galaxies. You watch the stars’ death and observe their rebirth as fervently as you tune out the sound of breaking glass and screams downstairs.

 

.

You are old enough that the children at the ceremonies have interests of their own. You tilt your head and smile wide, listening to them speak. Then, as always, you let yourself be steered away. 

There is one in particular- a child with bright, green eyes and a head of blond. They say to you, in a voice so quiet you think they’re trying to share a secret-  _ “My maid is a folklorist, she is! You see the large, looming mountain that lurks at what they call ‘The End of the World’? Mount Ebbott- of course you’d know. It’s where we banished the monsters off to all those years ago.”  _ Their eyes are alight.  _ “The commoners, they say- they say that whoever climbs up there disappears! Ha!” _

The gears in your head are turning.

 

.

 

Mother’s nails start to draw red soon. She grips your sleeveless arms by the elbow. Her gaze is something desperate, like that of a caged animal. You kill the fear that spikes within the pit of your stomach and give her a smile. Her manicured fingers draw lines across your pale forearms, and she leans in.

Her breath smells like cherry, her lips wine red with rouge. She says,  _ “Your father’s going to another one of his galleries, isn’t he?”  _ Her lips spread into a grin.

“Mother,” you start to say, quiet. Your smile doesn’t falter for a moment. “we will be back before ten. Would you like me to spend time with you afterwards?”

You are a misshapen tool in her arms, so you shape yourself to be as malleable to her will as can be. You need to hear the warning in her voice and read the danger in her approach, so you silence the urges that tell you to  _ pull away, move back, get as far away from her prying touch as you can.  _ You hold your ground and let your blood trickle from her fingertips.

She is not appeased. Your mother opens her lips and says, quietly, “ _ You bastard child. You’re a bastard child, you know that? All this time, I’ve been trying to show you love like he never has.”  _ Your mother’s rosy cheeks - ones reflected on your own face - widen in a chuckle. 

_ “He’s already gotten you, though, hasn’t he? No matter what, no matter how many times I tear those threads away, you’re wearing them again the next day!”  _ You  _ hurt.  _ You want her to  _ stop.  _

_ “Bastard child! The shame of your existence is the reason I’m stuck with your wretched, scumbag of a father!” _

There is blood on your flawless, unscarred arms and there is red on your gown and there is a feeling like fear rising in your chest. The scents of cherry and champagne cloud your mind, the piercing of nails against skin is a memory you can’t scrub away. There is screaming in your ears, there are lingering memories of voices raised in angry unison and proper men who turn into monsters under the roof of your home and women who become echoes of hatred when the sun sets and there is  _ blood on your bright yellow gown, bright yellow gown and your shiny silver shoes  _ and you

 

are in  _ so _ much pain.

 

You laugh.

You laugh and laugh and laugh until there are tears, you laugh until her grip tightens, you laugh until her anger morphs into disgust, and she throws you aside like the doll you know you are. You laugh there still until father comes to get you. An heiress indeed. A mess of bloodied arms and wasted money drenched in crimson.

He tells you to get off the carpet and get yourself cleaned.

That night, the stars on your ceiling don’t shine. You hear him yell at your mother about damaging his prize as clear as ever. Your arms clutch your blankets tight, your smile  _ painful  _ on your cheeks.

You  _ hate  _ them. You hate your parents. You hate the galas, the ceremonies, the silly stories your mother tells you. You hate  _ people,  _ hate the way you have to perform for them, and you hate their desires and wants and you hate the entire world that gave them a place to exist. You wish the stars would fall and crush this place to pieces.

You want to be there to watch the universe fall apart. You picture yourself laughing at the end of the world, finally at peace.

 

.

 

The dress you wear next is a deep shade of blue. It has long sleeves embroidered with lace and a frilly material. The sleeves hide your scars, you note, because of  _ course  _ they do, of course you can’t let them know you’re damaged goods from a home that packs within it enough loathing to fill the world’s beating heart with a wretched black poison. If goodness existed in the world, the bad that you’ve inherited is enough to break it apart and infect it with your sick.

This ceremony is held outside, for once- some phony cause or the other regarding eco-friendly investments. Men, women, people that all come from the same vault of gold you have, dress in furs and synthetic silks and things that sparkle under moonlight.  They talk about things like  _ the future, the profits,  _ the value of  _ green.  _

You give them glassy eyed smiles and calculating looks veiled with polite tilts of your head. You pretend that every mention of  _ the perfect heiress,  _ and  _ a lovely little girl  _ don’t stab into your skin like knives. You pretend that you don’t despise every single mingler in this place. 

Every time father touches your shoulder with gentleness he never shows you when you’re alone, you smile a little wider. Hate the world a little more.

There is a simmering feeling under your skin that wants to rip apart all the horrible things you are made of. There is a voice whispering in your head, telling you to peel away the layers of wretchedness you’ve acquired. You are a prize, and a weapon, and an heiress.

But you are not any of those.

You are merely a liar. And were you to try and discard of all the ugly things that make you what you are, you would wind up with nothing left to salvage at all.

_ “There she is!”  _ calls a voice. It is a gentleman with a round mustached face and a large, toothy grin. He holds up a glass of sparkling liquid that catches stars on its shimmering surface. You feel your skin crawl in disgust and your stomach churn with coils of hatred. Your rosy cheeks display a smile anyway.

 

“Mr. Thanrows,” you say, and can’t bring yourself to bow. You feel your father’s stare boring into your back, but even that isn’t enough to combat the gnawing feeling of bubbling unease within you.

 

He says words you don’t care to process. His face changes in ways you’ve never realised were ugly. The crowd around him too, is a shifting mass of horrendous ugliness. You’re all terrible here. Your head pounds with each word he says. The liquid in his glass swishes.

 

To and fro.

 

Back and forth. Quiet, rhythmic. You feel nauseous.

He says, “ _ You really are your father’s daughter.” _

You blurt out, “But I am not.”

Time comes to a stop. The amiable chatter of the party seems to fade to a blur, the pianist’s music becoming a dull hum that pulses along with your steady heartbeat. The dark sky opens wide, its jaws cruel and dripping poison. Yet it does not swallow you, and it never will. There are no stars here, you muse.  _ A pity,  _ you think, and try to imagine something pretty in the sky while your father’s hand on your shoulder becomes a fist.

_ "Pardon?”  _ says the Mister, and the drink in his glasses swishes again as he gestures with his hands.

“But I am not,” you say again, your voice clear this time. You can hear the Earth’s black heart pulse harder along with yours if you were just to focus. “my father’s daughter.”

_ “...She isn’t well, old friend.”  _ Father justifies.  _ “I believe the recent events have been stressing her out much- forgive her if she’s not quite in her right mind.” _

“I am in my right mind,” you say, calm. You see spots in your vision that filter the world an even darker shade of black. Your head’s pounding is nearly furious by now, a force not to be combated, and you feel as though something vicious and inhuman in you will show itself if  _ they don't stop, stop, stop it, stop calling you his daughter his heiresshisgirlyourenothisyourenotyourenot. _

The starless sky is as unsympathetic as ever, and father’s hand, for once- is more an inconvenience than anything close to a concern.

You feel Father’s hand steer you away, and you follow without a word of protest.

The ride back home is loud. He is yelling things, and you are not hearing them. You are looking for constellations on the ceiling of the car. You imagine that the lights on top are suns for entire planetary systems. You fancy that there is Saturn somewhere behind the passenger’s seat, and an asteroid belt separating the front row from the back.

Father is saying  _ disappointment, waste, failed investment.  _ Father is saying,  _ like mother, like daughter.  _ You are hearing bits and pieces now, absorbing them like a sponge, hungry for the bite and sting of them. This is proof, you think, that it’s mankind’s nature to hurt and be hurt like this. This is normal. This is  _ funny,  _ even, and you smile wider and wider with every insult hurled your way. You contemplate how hard he’ll strike you outside the door when you get home. (He does, and it stings, leaving a mark on your cheek and dislodging your expensive brooch. You stifle a giggle at the same time you choke on something suspiciously like a sob.)

You cannot find stars no matter how hard you look.

 

.

 

 

It is quiet in your room. Tonight, your stars do not die. Tonight, they are loud and bright lustrous things. You do not hear arguing downstairs, but you hear your mother humming.

_ When I was little, I had the most beautiful voice,  _ she had told you before. 

There is a striped sweater in your closet that you like. When you put it on, it hides your scars and encloses you in warmth. You find a pair of shoes under your bed, ones whose silver is graying.

_ The commoners, they say- they say that whoever climbs up there disappears!  _

It is a dark journey to the mountain. Your feet hurt often, and your stomach gnaws at you in hunger. The winding roads at night are empty but for the occasional vehicle passing by. You don’t remember ever being allowed to take walks on your own.

You weigh the heavy feeling in your chest and consider that the calling of the end is less funny than it seemed it your head. There lies Mt. Ebbott, large and looming; the sun is beginning to peak its head out over the horizon by the time you arrive.

There are  _ so  _ many stars in the sky. There’s an ocean of them waiting for a beholder, a world crafted entirely of dancing lights. You know these stars are not sympathetic. They are not like the ones in your room, they are not yours. They, too, have the gaping jaws of the night’s sky. But they are merciful, and they will consume all that’s left of you in one gulp.

The sun climbs with you when you start your ascent. As the stars disappear completely, you feel alone. There is quiet.

You close your eyes and think,  _ I wish I had cut my hair.  _ If anyone finds your body here, you’d hate to be thought of as the person who died being their  _ father’s daughter.  _ Then again, if anyone finds you here, then this stupid mountain hasn’t done its job right.

You breathe in, quiet and slow, and then turn away from the horizon and climb higher still. Your fingers ache and breathing gets harder.

And then...

And then something wraps around your foot. You stumble, mid-gasp, eyes widening. The world freezes around you. You think to yourself,  _ is this it?  _

And then you fall.

 

_ - _

 

When your consciousness comes, it is as painful as it is disappointing and confusing. You wake amidst a hollow void. Light falls only from a gap in the ceiling, showering you with the afterthoughts of sunshine. 

They step out of the abyss, then, and into the thin circle illuminated by cold light. 

(You will remember that moment forever after, because how could you forget?)

They say,  _ Are you okay?  _ And reach out a hand- no, a paw. You recall stories of vicious monsters and their sins against humanity. You can paint whole epics of bloodshed and war crimes in your head, hear the symphony of a million shattered human souls. 

A small monster child as young as you are fits in none of them. 

You are torn between a galaxy’s worth of feelings. Yet with the little monster’s soft urging, you have neither the time nor energy to indulge any. So you tell them,  _ Chara,  _ when they ask your name, and you allow them to carry you off to where monsterkind dwell once you take their hand.

 

_ My name is Asriel. _

 

(How could you  _ ever  _ forget this?)

 

.

 

Your loathing of humanity simmers low and quiet the longer you spend in the underground. Monsterkind are beings held together with magic and a sense of community, you learn. Their King and Queen are symbols of hope rather than status, their current dilemma a challenge met with vigor rather than misery. The images in your head are products of human lies yet again.

There is poetry to the way they navigate their lives. You are incapable of love, but you are capable of admiration, and you are empty of care, but not the ability to appreciate.

Still, you try to be good. You really do. You learn their names and their faces. You learn about magic, you learn about souls- you learn about the barrier, and about Azzy and the King and Queen. You spend your days peeking around corners of their castle for a hidden Asriel, morphing your face into something scary when you find him, and giving him the benefit of a smile when he squeals at being caught and then  _ laughs.  _

Asriel always wants to play. He is not like the children at galas, because something about him does not ask you to perform for him. (And you find yourself doing so anyway, of course, but it is no fault of his. You are a performative being; always will be.)

He is a strange kid, you decide, because it’s almost like  _ he  _ wants to perform for  _ you,  _ in an oxymoronic sort of way that is simultaneously the most puzzling and genuine thing you’ve ever seen. He is eager to make room for you in his life, nearly bursting with how excited he is. He shares with you his sweaters and pie; offers his bed until the King calls for yours to be made. When the time comes for you to be shown around town, he takes your hand in his paw and says to anyone that asks, “This is Chara, they are my new sibling!”

The King and Queen introduce you to their world as the hope for human and monsterkind, and then a  _ child _ of theirs, but Asriel introduces you as a sibling first and foremost, face alight and bearing a smile. And when he looks at you, he doesn’t see  _ father’s perfect daughter,  _ he doesn’t see an  _ heiress.  _ He sees what he says he does. His  _ sibling. _

You think you like that. You think the way he and the royal family speaks about you does not send your skin crawling with something like self disgust. That even the chatter among monsterkind regarding your arrival does not make you wish to retreat into yourself and replace the air in your lungs with void. That escapism is not the best option when it comes to monsterfolk.

In time, they, too, make room for your performance. But it is much easier to be the hope for the future than it is to be anything everyone on the surface asked you to be. You do not feel  _ safe,  _ and you do not feel like you  _ belong,  _ but you feel like you have a place to linger in between.

You are okay with being Asriel’s sibling. You are willing to play with him, to sleep on a bed opposite to his; you are willing to let the Queen mother you, and allow the king to fill you with words that piece together  _ your  _ story, one of hope and grandeur for both your races. 

You absorb what you can of their world like a sponge, and dissolve into it like salt. You remain, watchful and quiet, observing as the tension stirs and hope turns into desperation.

And when the time comes for bed, you think. You question. You piece together possibilities and scenarios and map out behaviours in your head. You prepare your script for your next performance, and fall asleep facing an empty ceiling.

 

.

 

You are playing tag with Asriel in the garbage dump.

“Hm… I wonder where he went off to,” you proclaim very loudly. “Could he be… behind this big old box full of junk?”

Your head snaps towards the aforementioned  box to your side. You make large, loud stomps through the water towards it, pretending you can't hear Asriel’s barely smothered giggles coming from behind the busted television up ahead.

“Shame,” you say when you find the box predictably Asriel-free. “I was so sure I’d gotten him.”

Asriel wheezes. You make a big dramatic show of going still for a moment.

“Oh my…” you say. Your brother seems to have realised his mistake. He is quiet now. You only hear the faint and distant hum of the complex machinery being ported off to Hotland a few metres off the dump.

“I could swear I just heard something.”

 

Your feet make threatening sounds as they slowly navigate the water.

“ _ Something… _ that might have come from my dear brother.”

You can see his back now. He is tense, paws clamped on his mouth.

 

You pounce.

 

Asriel lets out a shriek and you both stumble into the murky waters. 

When Asriel resurfaces, spits a soggy sock out of his, and fixes you a glare, there is something funny about the way the water makes his fur sag.

 

“So not fair! You hear  _ everything!”  _

 

You choke back a sound of your own when he shakes his head like a puppy and you find yourself sprayed with a shower of water droplets.

And then you're surprised when the sound lets loose anyway, and it's a  _ laugh.  _ You are laughing because Asriel’s fur is sticking out in a million directions and he looks so  _ indignant  _ and holy god he just spit out  _ a sock.  _ There are  _ tears  _ in your eyes and you can't stop, not even when the unpleasant sensation of your own wet, cold sweater and shorts sticking to your body settles in.

Yet when you regain your composure enough to look up, you make your best effort to extinguish the remnants of mirth on your face as quickly as possible. 

Because when you look up, Asriel is  _ smiling too,  _ and it's not a smile you know how to react to. It's not a face you can perform for and appease, the face of fondness.

You stutter on the inside and trip over the countless scripts you have in your mind. You don’t know how to play the part for someone who has never expected nor wanted you to. And so you chew on your lower lip and pull him close, even though you’re both wet and dripping and smell of garbage dump water and something in desperate need of a thorough wash.

“Chara,” he says, sounding surprised. He knows you’re averse to touch. But he questions you no more and is happy to be hugged.

You say to him, “You smell awful,”

You can  _ feel  _ him make a pouty face.

“Hey! You’re so mean.”

  
  


.

  
  
  


There is an uncomfortable stir beneath the skin of monster society. A hum amongst their people; their monologues of hope fall into monotony. Each day that passes by with the barrier unbroken, the hum begins to sound suspiciously like a buzz of unease.

And for  _ what?  _ You think, almost angry. The surface, where humans dwell? The Underground is small and quiet, colourful and well-lived in the way the surface world has never been. You have never thought you’d lost anything when you fell. Still, your anger isn’t directed at monsterkind, but rather yet again at humanity’s selfishness and shortcomings. Maybe, maybe,  _ maybe,  _ if you were enough of a person to  _ feel  _ things, you’d see the appeal of the surface.

For now, you have just enough feeling in you to hate the humanity that denies your hosts their freedom.

  
  


.

  
  
  
  


You are knitting Asgore an apology sweater for accidentally poisoning him with flowers. You have been working on it for a few weeks now, and it’s a large fuzzy thing that says ‘Mr. Dad Guy’. Asriel is trying to match your pace with a pair of gloves, but he’s not nearly as good as you are at knitting, even though he’s definitely trying his best.

You remember yourself laughing at the revelation of your unfortunate swap. A thought occurs to you.

You put down your knitting needles quietly, and observe Asriel. His tongue is out in concentration, his brows drawn together; he looks extremely focused on twisting his needle right, and only huffs in frustration and goes for another loop when he ultimately fails.

You almost hate to break his amusing routine, but once you’ve collected enough resolve, you pick up your needles again.

You don’t look at Asriel as you knit, but it’s him you’re directing your next words to, spoken as casually as if they were an invitation to another game of tag.

 

“I have a plan.”

  
  


.

  
  
  


You fill your mouth with golden petals and swallow. You keep going, even when you feel them suffocate you from within, even when you choke on their texture against your tongue and when your eyes fill to their brim with tears, because it has to be  _ enough,  _ it has to be enough to  _ kill  _ you. There is no going back here, no recovery. There has to be only one conclusion and one alone. Even when Azzy trembles, even when he kneels beside your bed and say  _ sorry, I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have, Chara, I’m so sorry, does it hurt?  _ you can’t bring yourself to feel regret.

( _ You are thinking to yourself that Asriel is an excellent performer himself. He is not a liar like you are, has never been. But he knows how to play the part of the perfect son, the golden prince. He clutches the sheets by your bed and cries himself sore, but still he doesn’t break character and betray your trust. He begs you to get better knowing that you won’t. Who would ever think that sweet, perfect Asriel would be complicit in your death?) _

Your fever burns you up inside out. You feel delirious. Yet still you turn towards him and, through glassy, half-lidded eyes, you offer him a smile. (And it's real, it's true, you are not performing.)

Dad is saying things. He is telling you to stay determined. He is telling you that you are the future of humanity and monster kind. You do not think he knows just how determined you really are, and you do not care to know what he’ll think of it either.

You close your eyes and drift back to uneasy slumber again, hoping that the time will come soon when you won't wake up at all.

It does.

 

.

 

_ You are screaming at Asriel to kill them all. You are screaming at him to stop, stop, stop being a coward and go through with it already.  _ It’s so  _ painfully  _ easy, so within your capability to wipe them all out now. Your combined souls are burning with enough power to tear them all apart. You are both a God, a being of purpose.

All it would take is one hit. And you  _ try  _ to kill them,  _ you do,  _ you try to tear through the crowds of human villagers, try to eradicate them until they’re nothing but the faint memory of ashes. You want to relish in the sound of shattering human souls if you must, even though you’d only come here for  _ six. Six more. Just six more. _

_ But he won’t let you. _

You scream some more, scream into the abyss of your shared mind until you drown out Asriel’s stream of apologies. You scream enough for the both of you when you feel him take blow upon blow.

_ Idiot!  _ You yell.  _ They’re killing you, Asriel, they’re  _ killing  _ you. You’re  _ dying _. _

He smiles and holds your body close to your shared godly form. He ignores your pleas to drop it and  _ run, run, run you absolute fucking idiot.  _

Golden flowers sway in the breeze. The howls of righteous rage from the villagers sound above your urgent calls.

You cry at Asriel to kill them all.

 

Nothing happens.

 

You scream for him to  _ just enough to save yourself. This was our  _ plan,  _ Asriel. _

 

Nothing happens.

 

You grow quiet, then, and revel in the horror of human voices singing an ugly symphony of vengeance for the body of a child they had forsaken in the first place.

 

You say,  _ At least leave my body here, Asriel. It’s worthless. _

 

But he refuses.

  
  


The journey up the mountain is silent and pained. You can feel something pull apart the being that you both are. You are smart enough to know that the whistling wind is your reaper’s song, and the future a call to an inevitable death.

It’s all failed. You are angry, furious even. Your rage pulses through your combined souls. But you are tired of screaming. You seethe in silence, and you hate them all. You hate humanity, you hate the barrier, you  _ hate  _ Asriel and you hate him for not going through with the plan, you  _ hate  _ him for loving you enough to drag your vessel back to the Underground and let himself die in the process. (And if you could you’d cry yourself sick the way he had beside your bed when you'd been dying, because he's as close as something like you will ever coming to loving someone, he is).

He is sorry. You can feel how sorry he is.

And he is  _ scared,  _ he is scared when his knees give way by the time he’s at the ring of golden flowers back home. He is scared when he holds up an arm and sees the dust, and he’s  _ terrified and sorr _ y.

And then..

 

And then he is dead, a smatter of dust amongst golden petals.

 

And you are alone.

 

.  
  
  


You had thought yourself an empty canvas capable of being what it should at any given time.

But you are not. And you never were. The closest you ever came to being is a jigsaw puzzle made up of pieces that pretend to fit where they didn’t. A mutated reflection of humanity bound together with hatred and pretenses. You are the demon that comes when its name is called. And so you wait for the one to call to you, quiet. Stagnant. But for the longest time, nobody comes.

 

In the nothingness, you map out stars.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> my name is phil, i'm 17, and i've never learnt not to stop crying over chara dreemurr.
> 
> (and yes, the title is a reference to the MOTI song, because god bless. i love that song.)


End file.
